


Till Death Do We Part

by Holmes_and_the_Roman



Series: Elijah's Lover [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Everyone is Upset, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, One Shot, don't hate me, idk - Freeform, this is my first fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holmes_and_the_Roman/pseuds/Holmes_and_the_Roman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of my tumblr buddies was very very sad about Elijah Van Dahl's untimely death. I wrote this with the intention of making her feel better. Basically, this is a fix about how the reader would react to his death and there is kind of a plot?? </p>
<p>Ignore this crappy summary (I get a little leeway, this is my first fanfic ever)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Death Do We Part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmmyOkami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmmyOkami/gifts).



A knock resounded at your apartment door. You looked up from your television show that you had tried to watch; unfortunately, you kept falling asleep (you cursed the show for coming on so late). Thinking it was just your neighbors, you relaxed a bit and settled back into the sofa.

The knock rang out again. Furrowing your brow, you stood and wrapped your robe tighter around your body. Hardly anyone came to your place at this time of night. You padded to the door and looked through the peephole. A police officer. You opened the door as far as your chain lock would allow.

“Yes? Can I help you, officer?” you asked quietly. Your heart beat faster in your chest, not knowing why any member of the GCPD would come to you.

“Are you __(f/n)__  __(l/n)?” the officer questioned. His voice was soft and melancholy—not a good sign.

“That’s me. What’s going on?” The officer said nothing, but stared pointedly at the chain lock. You took the hint and unlocked it. When you opened the door wider, you could clearly see the officer’s expression.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” you asked, your panic levels rising.

“Ma’am, did you know Mr. Elijah Van Dahl?” the policeman evaded your inquiries.

“Yes, I _do_ know him,” you corrected the officer. “What the hell is going on?”

The policeman’s eyes floated down to the carpet. After giving a small sigh, he stated, “Ma’am, I’m afraid Mr. Van Dahl was found dead in his home. Preliminary investigations suggest that foul play was involved. I am truly sorry.”

You had zoned out. Everything was surreal and you felt numb all over. A lump began to rise in your throat; you were sure you were going to vomit.

“That’s not right. You’re mistaken…” you stuttered.

“Ms. __(l/n)__, you were one of the most recently contacted people on his phone. You were also listed as an emergency contact. Again, I’m so sorry,” the officer explained.

Reality hit you—hard. Suddenly, you realized what the officer told you. You shook your head, tears falling freely from your eyes. “No. No, no, no. This isn’t real. You’re wrong! He’s not… oh, my God! He’s not!” Your mind had been put on autopilot as you tried to process this information.

“Ma’am, is there someone I can call for you?” the officer attempted to comfort you. He reached out a hand to touch you, but you jerked away.

“Go. Now. Please, just get out!” you screamed, slamming the door in the officer’s face. You did not mean to be so rude, but you just had so much anger and sadness.

You leaned against the door and slid to the floor, weeping. You thought back on the conversation with the officer, specifically when you were asked if you knew Elijah. Of course you did: he was your lover.

It was a secret that you had both kept from every other living soul. Not even his son Oswald Cobblepot knew. You and Elijah had met when you were working for Oswald. He was the one who introduced both of you. But when Elijah kissed your hand in greeting (being the gentleman that he was), you knew that it was all over. And Elijah felt the same about you.

Elijah was married to a ghastly woman who had two children from a previous marriage, but it was rather obvious that hardly any affection was shared (even if the way they met was romantic). He knew his wife had many lovers of her own, but you were his only one. His flower, his queen, his goddess. All these he called you as you made love to him. All those names were fine, but when he climaxed, your name spilled from his lips like a song from the depths of his soul. He loved you, and you loved him.

It wasn’t until tonight, though, that you realized how much he loved and depended on you. You were his emergency contact. Not his wife. Not Oswald. You. Elijah trusted you. And now he was gone.

 

Oswald was completely distraught. He was there was Elijah had… you still could not say that Elijah was dead. “Dead” was just too final of a word, yet no other word could describe the emptiness that you felt. You wanted to turn to Elijah for comfort, but he, your rock whom you could always rely on, was gone.

Everything transpired too quickly. The GCPD ruled Elijah’s death as a suicide by poison. Oswald could not say he was present, for he was not on good terms with the police and they would definitely try to pin the death on him. No, the police closed the case without barely even opening it.

The funeral happened a few days after the GCPD closed the case. Oswald invited you as a friend, but the connection you shared with his father had to go unspoken.

Tears were shed as the casket was lowered into the ground. Mrs. Van Dahl and her children showed no emotion, but you and Oswald were devastated. It was over.

“That was a lovely service, Oswald,” you murmured to the crime lord. Both of you had decided to linger at the gravesite. The diggers began to cover the coffin in dirt, and the more they shoveled down the hole, the more your heart broke.

“Yeah. He would have liked it, I think,” Oswald said, his voice breaking. You looked over to the pale man. His eyes and nose were red and he was shaking. You had seen this before: when Gertrud died, Oswald was broken into pieces. So often he was put together, but he was unraveling. It was not fair. Yes, you had lost a lover, but Oswald lost both of his parents in the same year. You put your arm around Oswald to share body heat in the cold air.

“The only thing I thought was a bit… troubling was that we didn’t get to see him one last time,” you lamented.

Before Oswald could respond, someone tapped you on the shoulder. You spun around to find a rather plain man wearing a suit. Oswald followed your movements and stared at the man.

“Who are you?” Oswald asked bluntly.

“Sorry, is this Elijah Van Dahl’s funeral?” the man questioned.

“Yes, but you’re too late. It’s over,” you replied.

“I am dreadfully sorry. My condolences to both of you, but I was instructed to bring these to you.” The man withdrew two envelopes from his pockets. He held them out for you and Oswald to take them, but both of you were hesitant.

“What are these?” you asked, gingerly taking the envelope that was beautifully inscribed with your name.

“Mr. Van Dahl revised his will a few weeks after he met Oswald. He instructed that a few handwritten letters be delivered on the day of his funeral.” The man placed Oswald’s envelope into his hands. “Again, my condolences to both of you.” The man turned and left just as quickly as he had come.

“That was odd,” you told Oswald. He nodded in response. “Are you going to open yours?”

Oswald shook his head. “I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home. Tell me how the luncheon goes,” he said as he pocketed his letter.

You sighed and shrugged your coat closer to you. “I think I may go home as well. I just need to be alone.” You reached out to hug Oswald. “Be good to yourself. This isn’t your fault,” you whispered.

Oswald sniffed and let out a breath. “I don’t know,” he replied. He broke the hug and smiled at you. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” He turned and limped away to his car, where Gabe was waiting patiently for his boss.

For a moment, you stayed and watched Oswald leave before you left the dismal graveyard and called a cab.

You slowly trudged up your stairs and entered your apartment. _What now?_ you thought to yourself. Was life supposed to go back to normal? How could anything be normal when you could not spend time with Elijah. You stood in your doorway, just scanning your ominously normal apartment. Normal. What was normal now?

With a sudden rage that erupted like a volcano, you threw down your purse and screamed as you swiped objects off of the buffet that stood next to the entrance. You threw down anything that was in arms’ reach, including a vase that was given to you as a housewarming gift. You crumpled to the ground and wept for what felt like hours. You were hurting so bad, and the one man who could take away the pain was gone.

You cried and cried until you were sure that you had no more tears to shed. You whimpered and sat up, looking around at the mess you made. You sighed and reluctantly stood to clean up the fruits of your anger.

When you finished, you started a fire in your fireplace and changed into your loungewear. You picked out an undershirt that had belonged to Elijah. He had forgotten it one time when he was over at your place. You kept meaning to return it.

You slid the shirt on and breathed in the scent of your beloved. He always smelled of mint and cognac, a combination that melted together beautifully. You felt as though he was there, wrapping his caring arms around you and reassuring you that everything would be all right.

Then you remembered: you had received a posthumous note from Elijah. Anxious to see what he would tell you beyond the grave, you rushed to your purse and dug through it until you found the envelope. His familiar handwriting lovingly etched your name on the front. You ran your fingers over it and then carefully opened the letter.

Once again, his calligraphy graced the beautiful stationery in a letter of great length. You swallowed thickly and eagerly began to read:

 

_My Dearest __(y/n)__,_

_Let me begin this letter with three words that could not be written in a more heartfelt way: I love you. I love you with all of my heart. You are my sweet flower; you were, are, and will always be my beloved. I am so sorry if you have to read this, because this means you attended my funeral today. It’s funny; I always prided myself in the fact that I had impeccable health._

_Of course, there is a reason behind this letter. I want you to continue working for my son. He will need you. As you might already know, he lost his mother, dear Gertrud (May she rest in peace). Oswald will need strength, and you, my dear, are the strongest person I have ever known._

_Do not be sad. Please do not cry anymore tears on my behalf. Know that I love you and miss you._

_With all the adoration in my heart,_

_Elijah_

_P.S. There was no poison._

 

You halted at the postscript. You read the words over and over again. There was no poison. There was no poison.

_There was no poison._

“I didn’t see his body,” you whispered aloud.

“You got my letter,” said a voice behind you. You screamed and fell backwards. You looked up at the intruder, who was hidden in the shadows. The man stepped into the light.

Elijah Van Dahl smiled softly at you with a yearning in his eye. “If you don’t mind,” he murmured, stepping towards you. “I would like my shirt back.”


End file.
